The patch on her right sleeve read "78866." Using the Pilot pen I had tucked into the notebook's spiral, I wrote down the number. "Let me repeat it," I said, "78866."

The conductor smiled as I continued, "I'm going to send a compliment to Metro. You've been terrific."

The episode with 78866 began when my Tap ( Taxi Access Program) card was out of funds, but my Senior Citizen Pass could permit a 35-cent ride. "I don't have change," I told her, pulling a dollar bill from my wallet. (The day before, my grandson, Felix, had shown me his treasure chest of coins, so I emptied my change purse into it.)

"Just take the dollar; my fault for being unprepared," I told her.

"Just ask one of the passengers for change," she said. "Don't waste money."

"No, that's fine. My mistake."

But, 78866 insisted; so curbing embarrassment, I called out my request, which was quickly answered by a mother cuddling her baby. She nimbly used her free hand to extract coins, at first refusing my paper bill, but accepting after I pressed it into her palm.

Of course, there have been hiccups on my use of Metro. On Sunday, after alighting from the #704 at Santa Monica and Fairfax, I asked a friendly woman where I would catch the #218. It wasn't until my 35-cents had plunked that I had learned I would've been traveling in the opposite direction of my destination in Studio City.

I relate these experiences because prior to moving to Los Angeles, various people warned me against its public transit system. "Dicey passengers, unreliable service," they cautioned. "You'll need to buy a car."

However, I had received my Carless Basic Training in Chicago and was determined to avoid the expense. Uber had successfully been my option for short trips, but for longer excursions, I turned to Metro.

My initial reasons to go carless in L.A. included: a desire to save money, to get exercise walking to bus stops and coffee shops, to learn its landscape via window seats, and to prove my independence. But I now realize it was my childhood adventures that bonded me to public transit.

It started in the 1940's, with the red Pullman streetcar that stopped on tracks outside our mom-and-pop grocery store. Here are excerpts, via my memoir, that may help you understand our relationship:

"Once on board the streetcar, Mother took a quarter from her purse and handed it to the conductor who made change for the ten-cent fare with the coin holder he wore on his belt. Then, with the car in motion, we lurched through the aisle until we found two empty spaces. After we landed on the cane-backed seats, I tugged at Mother’s coat sleeve and said, ‘Look, there’s Mrs. Schwartz, she’s going into the A&P.’"

Okay, that particular passage is a bit dour because it previewed the coming demise of our small establishment that couldn't compete with supermarkets. But there are other paragraphs that can enlighten.

"I recalled the first time Estherly and I rode the streetcar, on our own, to Wabash Avenue downtown for dance lessons. Dressed in outfits a step up from school clothes and carrying our tap shoes in drawstring sacks, we thought we were big shots.

"My cousin and I had a shtick back then that we ad-libbed every time the streetcar approached the bridge over the Chicago River. 'It's going up,' Estherly would cry out, as the trolley paused at the water’s edge. While we’d watch the jaws of the bridge unfold and reach for the sky, and the tall sails slip below the open bridge, Estherly would add, 'What if it doesn’t shut back down tight? What if it falls apart when we cross it, and we plunge into the river?'

"'I can’t swim,' I would wail, and clutch Estherly’s sleeve as if I were a starlet in a B movie. 'Save me!' Once the streetcar made it safely over the closed bridge, we’d laugh at our pretend terror."

So, to all those who warned me against Los Angeles' Metro, you should know that once the red Pullman, streetcar tracks, and overhead cables, have been imprinted on your childhood brain, it's useless dissuading the rider from the joys of staring out the window, watching her world — old and new — pass before her enchanted eyes.

My favorite clue was "kitty in a tree." I think Felix liked that one, too, because he asked that the Hello Kitty key fob be used in three more games.

It all started with a text from Jill: "Can you come over and hang out with Felix for awhile?" The previous day, she had hosted a large Thanksgiving dinner, and was hoping to catch up on needed rest. "I'll try and get a babysitter, but are you available until then?"

Her query arrived while I was riding a bus that would get me to a hardware store. I was seeking a garage door opener that my daughter could use to park in the space allotted to my new apartment. Happy visions of her dropping over spontaneously were spurred by long ago memories of the times in Chicago when I'd return home to discover either of my daughters' cars parked outside.

On the bus, I was studying directions to the store and was as focused as if I were a gold rush prospector. But after receiving Jill's request, I shifted to my attention to my iPhone and typed: "Happy to help. On way to Baller's on Hyperion. Will text when done. Pick me up there."

This new plan heartened me, because four weeks into my move to Los Angeles, I was intent on being an asset, rather than a burden. If I could be helpful -- by entertaining my grandson and providing a respite to my daughter -- my immigration could be considered a win-win.

When I completed my purchases, that included a dry mop and a just-in-case toilet plunger, I typed: "Ready to be retrieved."

"Isaac's on his way." This alert from my daughter was another perk -- a chance to see my 18-year-old grandson whose words, "Why don't you move to L.A.?" sparked my recent long-distance transfer.

"Can you get Felix off his screen?" were Jill's first words after her welcoming hug. I followed her gaze to my six-year-old grandson who was prone on the couch, his eyes focused on an electronic pad and his thumbs swiftly pressing buttons.

I put my hands on my hips and surveyed the indoor scene. I considered my daughter's challenge as one crucial for me to accept and win. But first, I had to lure Felix outside.

While he continued his game, I took a few moments to contemplate their backyard. It held a lemon tree, Ping-Pong table, hammock, outdoor sofa, potted plants, a coiled water hose, and other items I could foresee as props in a game.